


bulletproof

by thirteentorafters



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Guns, M/M, Mr & Mrs Smith AU, happy ending yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteentorafters/pseuds/thirteentorafters
Summary: Having a gun in his face isn’t new for Patrick.the mr & mrs. smith au :D





	bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [namesintherafters (listentotherush)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentotherush/gifts).



> because it's @namesintherafters' birthday and i asked for a fic request. this is that fic :)
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE
> 
> (written in an hour and posted so if there are typos, I WILL PROBABLY FIX THEM
> 
> but maybe not)

Having a gun in his face isn’t new for Patrick.

The person holding the gun _is,_ especially when Patrick’s been sleeping with him for five years, married for three. Jonny narrows his eyes and unlike most of the people who end up as Patrick’s assignment, Jonny’s hand doesn’t waver. Jonny’s wrist is bare, shirt torn, and their wrists are so close that if Patrick jerks to the left, they’ll be touching. Maybe that’s why he can’t do it.

His own gun is trained on Jonny’s chest and this is something Patrick’s done a hundred times, assignments he’s breezed through like they were nothing; he’s fired a million guns, but he can’t fire this one.

“I can’t do it,” words tumbling out before he has a chance to stop them.

Jonny’s lip curled, angry, but there’s a shadow of something in his expression that Patrick can’t place. “Do it!”

  
  


The thing is.

The things is, Patrick loves Jonny more than anyone else he’s ever known.

“Pick up your dirty laundry,” he yells, tossing Jonny’s dirty underwear at his face. Jonny cusses, flips him the bird, but starts to kick his laundry in the vicinity of the basket. (The last thing Patrick wants to do when he’s killed someone is picking up after his slob of a husband.)

Jonny glares at him, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glare firmly in place. “You want dinner, you know how to cook it yourself.” (There are weapons in the fucking _microwave_.)

Patrick’s flimsy excuses of, “Not tonight, dear, I’m tired,” when he’s bruised up and injured and can’t have sex with Jonny if he doesn’t want to have _that_ conversation. (In retrospect, the times Jonny claims his concussion’s acting up and he can’t make more sense)

Sometimes things suck in their marriage. Their fights are almost as legendary as their sex, and Sharpy’s constantly ending any conversations that lead into the fabulous fucking Jonny gives Patrick when he really asks for it.

“I love him,” Patrick says once when he’s really _really_ pissed and thinks he’s like, dying or something. “S’gonna find out one day."

“You’ll have to kill him,” Sharpy says, not a hint of amusement in his voice. “If you throw up in my car, I’ll kill you and save you the trouble.”

Patrick waves a hand, promising he won’t. His nausea increases at the thought of having to kill _Jonny_ , but honestly, he’s an assassin. Murder comes with the job.

  


 

“I love you,” Patrick says, just in case it isn’t obvious.

“Jesus,” Jonny mutters and his gun wavers.  
  


  

They’re seeing a marriage counselor because that’s the thing normal couples do, right? Like hanging with your neighbours (Sharpy and Abby are the the only ones that don’t make Patrick wanna punch them in the face), mowing the lawn (he’s pretty sure neither he nor Jonny know how to), and having a ordinary day job (the last time Patrick worked in an office was for a mark, and he’s not sure they’ll give him a good reference).

His name’s Brent and he looks like he’s one step away from throwing them through a window if they don’t stop being so fucking patronizing about each other.

“He’s not a good lay,” Jonny lies, smiling sweetly at Brent.

Brent pinches the bridge of his nose. “Patrick? What do you have to say to that.”

“I fucked him so hard on his birthday last year that neighbors called the cops. They thought I was killing him he was screaming my name so loudly.”

Jonny immediately clenches his hands into fists against the armrests and he’s wearing his murder face, the innocent expression that’s always amused Patrick. (In retrospect, Patrick wonders how close Jonny had been to slipping the knife out of his ankle holster and stabbing him in the face.)

There’s a long, drawn-out silence.

“You’re not paying me enough for this,” Brent says, knuckles white around his pen. Patrick’s killed someone with a pen once - he knows he’d be dead if Brent decided to use it.

  
  


Patrick’s gonna fucking cry and he hates himself. “Shoot me.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny snarls, but his hand is actually shaking and dammit, if Patrick was anyone else, he’d have taken advantage already.

Patrick licks at his bottom lip, sees the way Jonny tracks its progress and grins. “We could.”

  
  
  
 

It’s not like they even have sex that’s worth it.

Not _rare_. Just, when they do have it, it’s so fucking boring.

It’s the one thing they always used to get right, and sometimes Patrick lies awake, thinking of the way Jonny’s hands would touch him; how slowly he’d push in, dick hard and thick; the words Jonny’d whisper in his ear.

Often, when Patrick’s not overcoming injuries or tired or begging off because he’s pissed at Jonny, it’s quick and dirty and over before they can really think about it.

  


 

“Darling,” Patrick says, because he knows Jonny hates it. “Fuck me.”

Jonny’s breathing heavy, toned and muscular - gym addict, Patrick’s ass - but he’s not putting the gun down. “Shoot the fucking gun, Peeks.”

Patrick startles, throat thick, and he drops his gun to the floor. “No.”

  
  


 

“Peeks,” Jonny whispers, the second time they fuck. He’s hovering over Patrick, thighs thick and fucking amazing as he straddles Patrick’s hips. Patrick’s touching everywhere, eyes on Jonny’s dick, curving hard against his stomach and oh god, Patrick wants _everything_.

“Fuck me,” he says, eyes dark.

Jonny obliges, takes him apart slowly and only puts him back together when he’s fucked out of his mind.

“I could love you,” Patrick thinks aloud.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jonny replies, mouthing at the slope of Patrick’s jaw. “Love is for fools, Peeks.”

  
  
 

Jonny’s staring at the gun, then up at Patrick. “Patrick.”

“Shut up,” Patrick says, shoving at Jonny’s chest. Jonny goes willingly, back hitting the wall with an audible thump and he doesn’t resist the hands Patrick fists into his ruined shirt. “ _Fuck me_.”

A beat. Two.

Jonny wraps his fingers in Patrick’s hair, tilts his head just so, and kisses the hell out of him.

It’s overwhelming and effortless and it’s been so long that Patrick thinks he’s gonna come in his pants like a teenager.

Holding onto Jonny’s always been easy.

  
  
 

The assignment is Calvin de Haan.

He’s supposed to be some new assassin the Agency wants to take out. It’s not usually the kind of thing Patrick takes. Assassin on assassin fights never end well, but he needs the money and Jonny’s hosting some stupid neighborhood BBQ thing that he’s trying to get out of. There’ll be food and shit but it’ll be gluten-free or healthy shit and Patrick’s trying but he’s not sure he loves Jonny that much.

“I hate these jobs,” Patrick says, scrubbing at his face.

Sharpy kicks his legs up onto the table and smirks. “You could always tell Jonny the real reason you’re skipping out on his get together.”

“Fuck no,” Patrick says emphatically. The only thing worse than an assassin on assassin job is a pissed off Jonny with the incentive to make Patrick’s life hell.

“Then,” Sharpy continues. “Take out this de Haan and give it up.”

Patrick’s brow furrows. He’s been an assassin most of his life. Not that he’s ever gonna tell his mom what he really does for a living. He might as well turn a gun on himself. “I’ll take out de Haan,” Patrick agrees. “But I’ll shoot at Jonny before I ever give up the job.”

  
 

 

HIlarious, Patrick thinks, Jonny’s hands on his ass, sliding down to his thighs. He hitches, muscles taut as he lifts Patrick onto his hips, turns and presses him to the wall in one fluid motion. Patrick’s already turned on, but he’s sure the next time Jonny wants to get him worked up, that’ll do it.

“I love you,” Jonny bites out angrily, sucking at the skin of Patrick’s neck. He’s angry, bitter, but Patrick’s not afraid.

“I know,” Patrick replies, smug, and twists his hands into Jonny’s hair, grinds his hips against Jonny’s stomach. He’s so hard it’s painful and it’s been so, so long since Jonny’s turned him on this much, since he’s wanted it so badly. “Sorry.”

Jonny tears his mouth away from Patrick’s skin and tightens his grip on Patrick’s hips. “For what?”

Patrick pauses, touch lighter as he smooths down Jonny’s hair. It’s not a caress, not really, but his breath still hitches at the _brittleness_ of Jonny’s expression.

Like Patrick has the ability to break him.

  
  


 

The problem isn’t de Haan or the assignment.

The problem is Jonny, his car, and the fact that he’s just driven right through Patrick’s line of sight.

It’s some terrible, karma-induced coincidence. Except, then there’s a gun hanging out of Jonny’s window and fuck, fuck _no_.

“Oh no you don’t,” Patrick yells, lifting his own gun and shooting out the back passenger side of Jonny’s car. That he’s paid half the bill for.

Jonny’s eyes meet his, surprise and a brief look of despair that Patrick does them both the favor of not seeing, and then he’s angry and brilliant, the same way he always is. The car swerves, de Haan startled from his park stroll, and he’s off into the darkness.

Patrick follows because it’s his job.

Jonny follows because, apparently, it’s his job too.

  
  
  
“I’ve been lyin’ to you,” Patrick says quietly.

Jonny snorts, shades of the guy Patrick met half a decade ago. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Didn’t think Canadians had it in them to be assassins.” Patrick grins at Jonny’s eye roll and presses a kiss to Jonny’s forehead. “I wasn’t kidding about getting fucked.”

“You always wanna get fucked,” Jonny says immediately.

It’s true. They’ve just taken a while to remember.

One of Jonny’s hand drops to Patrick’s fly and there’s a rush of blood in Patrick’s ears and he thinks _finally_.

 

 

 

“I can’t kill him!” Patrick yells.

Sharpy shrugs like it’s no big deal, fuck him. “If you wanna continue doing this job, you’ll take him out.”

There’s something about Sharpy’s expression, about the way he says it, that brings Patrick up short.

  
  
  
“Babe,” Jonny says sweetly from the kitchen. “I cooked you dinner.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, and dives into the living room as bullets whiz past his head. Honestly, Jonny’s just sloppy if he’s gonna start pretending he actually cooks shit instead of ordering in. Patrick’s seen the pamphlets in the kitchen drawer.

There’s silence.

There are guns in the house enough for Patrick to take Jonny out if he wants. There’s a compartment in the sofa housing enough firepower to bring down the neighborhood. There are grenades and AK-47s in the dining room, and Patrick’s pretty sure the arsenal in his closet is identical to Jonny’s, wherever he’s hidden it.

Patrick slides over to the couch, tugs a couple of his favored handguns and cradles them in his hands. This is too fucking weird, but if Jonny’s gonna shoot at him, he’s not gonna lay down and take it. “Should have done,” he says when he’s crept out from behind the couch and peers around the doorjamb. “I’d have died quicker.”

Jonny’s yell of outrage gives away his position and Patrick smirks.

  
  
 

The hand around his dick is slow and careful and Patrick’s head drops back against the wall with a _thunk_.

“Jonny,” he says, sounding strangled.

Jonny’s not saying anything. He’s staring at Patrick, watching his eyes, his throat, his dick. His fingers are calloused and fuck, Patrick knows where those calluses come from, wonders whether Jonny’s body count is equal to his, and finds he never wants to know. He curls around Jonny’s upper body, hips rolling against Jonny’s grip, and letting out soft moans that get caught in Jonny’s hair, muffled where Patrick’s burying his face.

 

 

“Sweetheart,” Jonny mocks. “Come out and play.”

“Fucking creepy,” Patrick mutters but does as he’s asked, firing off one of the grenades in Jonny’s direction.

He takes out a good portion of the house, but he doubts suburbia is the last place he’ll settle for after he - well, after.

Jonny’s answering volley of bullets has Patrick racing for the kitchen, ducking down beneath the counter as Jonny follows.

Patrick waits to the count of twenty. “How long?”

There’s no reply and Patrick knows it’s a long shot.

“Seven years,” Jonny says eventually.

Patrick forgets to take advantage because what the fuck, they married thinking they were normal and ordinary and all those boring words when in fact they were both killing people for a living. “Fuck, we’re living a movie.”

Grabbing one of the guns from his kitchen stash, Patrick makes it into the hallway before he feels the press of steel against his spine. Whirling, the muzzle of his gun almost smacks Jonny in the face as he levels it.

They’re face to face.

Gun to gun.

All Patrick’s gotta do is pull the trigger.

 

 

“So what now?” Patrick asks between moans, orgasm building. He feels like a live wire, electricity sparking everywhere he and Jonny are touching and fuck, it’s been so long since it’s been like this and Patrick wants everything Jonny’s gonna give.

Jonny noses at Patrick’s jaw, slides his mouth around to Patrick’s ear and whispers, hot and dirty, “first we kill de Haan.”

Patrick grunts, dick jumping in Jonny’s fist. Fuck, the thought of he and Jonny working together.

“Then,” Jonny continues, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, “We take down our agencies."

Patrick’s breaths are coming short and sharp, breathy moans against Jonny’s shoulder. The fact that Jonny’s still holding him up, jerking off at the same time, it’s so much.

Jonny catches Patrick’s mouth in a kiss, tongue effortless, lips hot and wet, pressure points of want that Patrick’s never gonna be able to fight. “Then I’ll fuck you again, slow and careful, while we figure out how to use these skills of ours.”

Patrick comes to the sound of Jonny’s words, to the feel of Jonny’s thumb swiping the head of his dick, to the taste of Jonny’s mouth on his.

  
  
  
Patrick doesn’t forget to mail Brent a check for three times the amount they promised to pay him.

“You’re weak on your right side,” he points out as Jonny straps a couple of holsters to his thighs. He looks fucking hot but they’re about to go into one of those fight-for-your-life situations and Patrick doesn’t know how to say _don’t you fucking die on me_ without crying about it.

“You’ll compensate for me,” Jonny replies, dragging Patrick in for a kiss.

It’s as good as _don’t you fucking die either._

Patrick thinks maybe he can do that, as long as Jonny’s waiting for him the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> [i have a tumblr!](http://thirteentorafters.tumblr.com)


End file.
